An important fact about myself is my pathological fear of conflict (thanks, anxiety). One of the many behaviors this has spawned is that especially in online circles, I tend to refrain from dipping my hands into the drama pot and giving my two cents. Very rarely I will voice an opinion about political events unless asked directly. But recent (ish) events in the internet community specifically have made me introspective about the roles and dynamics of internet celebrities and how they fit into our current culture, so if this is a Hot Take, as the kids say, then prep the oven mitts, this one’s coming in piping.

My first thought is the differences between traditional silver screen celebrities, and the “influencers” or “content producers” of today. Both are extremely prevalent in our screen-oriented world. The major difference between them is this: actors, music artists, the kind of folks who get invited to the Met Gala—they have a kind of fourth wall between themselves and their fans. It varies in thickness, but there’s still a veneer of fantasy to them. They’re idols, ideals, concepts, rather than real people. They make their living off of selling fiction, and making people love the story. Eventually megastars can sell their products just based on their names alone; “Detective Pikachu” would not have been anywhere near the hit it is without Ryan Reynolds front and center on the project (combining that Reynolds humor with Pokémon nostalgia, a heady combination that’s got me throwing my money at the whole franchise with frantic glee). We talk about casting “known” actors versus “unknown” actors, about “new” music artists who catapult from the ocean of musicians with small fanbases into the realm of superstardom; celebrities of all stripes find themselves in a place where their lives are on display and presented by tabloids and talk shows as more fodder for our story-hungry monkey brains. These people are labels, brands, foundations, corporations. For all intents and purposes, they don’t exist as more than an image and a name and a list of accomplishments.

Internet celebrities are a little different. Let’s Play makers, makeup tutorial gurus, Instagram models, YouTubers, Twitch streamers—they make their living by presenting reality, by showcasing things that are real and that you can own. I am by no means suggesting that internet personalities don’t present doctored versions of themselves, but they make their living by being personable and friendly to sell you an experience. Content creators interact on a much more up-close and personal level with their fans, mainly because content creators’ livelihoods are granted by direct support from their fanbases and not an agreed-upon sum set by a film production company. The promised experience from an internet celebrity is a much more personal and intimate one. Watching Let’s Play streamers is like sitting with friends on your couch and watching them play a video game, with banter between the streamer and the audience in chat. A makeup reviewer tells you about their day-to-day beauty regimen and gives advice on what to do with your own. Tabletop RPG players share the tragedies and triumphs of fickle dice rolls and elicit sympathy from audience members who themselves are also players. The presented experience isn’t marketed as fictional. It doesn’t feel fictional. It feels like a real relationship, a one-sided friendship where the audience’s emotional investment into their internet celebrity faves is, chemically speaking, a 100% legitimate connection. These are our friends, we say as we refresh our Instagram feeds to see what our chosen influencers are up to next, and then stalk Twitter for hours to see when the next video is coming. They’re real people just like us, we cry as internet celebrities have moments of vulnerability where they talk about hard and personal subjects.

What traditional celebrities have that internet celebrities don’t is distance from the fanbase, and this is by design. A side-effect that was probably not by design is the sense of ownership a fan feels towards their favorite content creators because of that perceived personal relationship; it’s this sense of ownership that gives fans incentive to buy from and support creators, and also creates potent fuel if and when the internet celebrity has a fall from grace. The betrayal is personal—how dare my friend, whom I watch every day and follow more closely than my extended family members, do this to me, we rage as ugly scandals come to light. They aren’t who I thought they were, we say as we cut off our supports to them. Or, perhaps, the other extreme occurs: this influencer, my friend, would never do something like this, despite evidence to the contrary, we sob as our investments into internet celebrities turn out to have been hollow wastes of time. Attacks against my favorite content creator is an attack against me, we hiss as we throw vitriol at those who would dare accuse or slight our favorites.

My point in mapping this out is more to highlight the phenomenon than to derive any real meaning from it. A recent and ongoing kerfuffle in the Twitch community affected me personally and deeply, and continues to affect me, and I couldn’t figure out why, at first. Why does this matter so much to me? I’ve never met these people. I have no personal stake in what they do or what the outcome of this is. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how that wasn’t true. I did have a personal stake, because I had no distance between myself and those whose work I admired. As far as my brain chemicals were concerned, I was friends with those people. Watching videos and wearing merch of these internet celebrities triggered the same happiness as my close friends do when I interact with them. I dedicated so much of my time to them and their pursuits, I was actually upset with my real life for interfering with my ability to watch every single video stream. And, much like when you have a fight with your friends or they have to leave for a while, the anxiety fallout when these internet celebrities were out of my life was real and impactful. It hurt, knowing the time (and money!) I had invested may as well have been wasted. It hurt, knowing that nothing could be the same as it was before all hell broke loose.

With therapy and time and further information clarifying the inciting events, I’m happy to report that I’m recovered (more or less), but that first day of despair is one I will never forget. I’ll wear the scar in my heart as a reminder: put that fourth wall back in place, because a content creator who doesn’t know who you are personally is not your friend. Support them, consume their content, interact with the fandom—by all means, please do. Have empathy for content creators, for the pressures placed on them by being up-close and personal with their fandoms, because they are actual people too, and without the advantages of bodyguards and privacy fences and personal assistants to manage their social media accounts. Don’t be a dick to people on the internet, especially those you don’t really know.

But what I don’t want to forget, and what I want to impart to readers, is that the emotional connection to a celebrity is not a real functional relationship, and should not have the power to ruin your mental health even for a day if their careers end suddenly (barring literal death, which is a conversation for another day). It cannot give you the satisfaction of a true relationship with another person, nor the support of one. Not to say you can’t be upset, because that is time and money and emotions invested into something that it turns out wasn’t giving an honest return, but there’s a difference between being mad about a show being canceled, and being miserable and unresponsive for two weeks because a show was canceled.

That’s been my thought process since the beginning of May, anyway. Enjoy your Hot Takes.